


There Can Be No Peace Between Us

by dustdancingintheflickerlight



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, I love these two idiots, Milady deserved better, mention of alcoholism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustdancingintheflickerlight/pseuds/dustdancingintheflickerlight
Summary: He's late, but she left early.And so the newly appointed Captain of the Musketeers makes a decision that could change his life. For better or for worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fan fiction for years so please bear with me. I'm trying to get back into writing my own stuff more, and I recently re-watched the Musketeers and fell in love with these two morons, so it seemed like a good place to start.
> 
> I was going to make it a longer, singular piece but I think a couple of chapters might work too.
> 
> I'm not sure if people still read this fandom, but if you're out there, please let me know what you think!

She waits for a lifetime and feels as though the anticipation might kill her. Every noise makes her heart leap, and every disappointment leaves her pained. It was a childish hope to begin with, she thinks, and cringes as she remembers their last conversation in the garrison. _You will never see me again._  
“Let’s go,” she says, her voice steady.  
There are tears in her eyes as the carriage moves off. She refuses to let them fall.  
\----  
Le Havre is a bustle of people and chatter and trade, and Anne can’t stand it. The next ship to England won’t leave until morning, so she pays for a cheap room close to the port and crawls into bed.

She hates how vulnerable she feels, hates how Athos still has this hold over her. Working with him to bring down Rochefort was a risk, she knew, but the way he looked at her in Treville’s office… for a brief second or two, the pure disgust in her husband’s eyes made her want to fall to her knees and beg his forgiveness. Of course, that was something she would never do. Why should she give her information freely? Not one of those Musketeers knew what it was to be a woman in a man’s world. They would never understand her fear of the streets, not even Porthos, because Porthos got out. Someone had cared enough to help him carve out a life where he didn’t have to worry where his next meal came from. Anne de Breuil had no-one. 

_Enough_ , she thought to herself. No more self-pity. She was not Anne de Breuil any longer, and she had never truly been Anne de la Fere. She was Milady de Winter, and she made her own path. No man would make her feel guilty for that again, not even Athos.

He had not come. Did she truly believe he would? For a time, yes. With all her heart _yes,_ because he had kissed her with such passion that for a second, she found herself back in their marriage bed in Pinon, carefree and young, and so, so in love. After, as she drank him in, that handsome face and messy hair and lips plump from kissing, she saw Olivier, her husband. It sent a jolt of pain through her that she hadn’t expected, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to pull him to her once again, to tear away that ridiculous uniform, and have him right there in Rochefort’s office. On the desk, maybe, the same place that Rochefort had dared to put his hands around her neck. It wouldn’t quite be justice, but it would have made her smile all the same. But then Olivier was gone, and Athos the Musketeer was back, his attention focused on the screams in the palace hall. 

_Let him show his hand, and then we will strike._ And as Rochefort did just that, the two of them walked back to the garrison in somewhat uncomfortable silence. In her too hot room in Le Havre, Anne lifts her skirts and slides her hand under the lace of her underwear, and remembers how they came together again that night, furious and loving and frantic and so overdue, and thinks if that is her last memory of Athos, then so be it. 

\--- 

He gets to the crossroads, and he knows he’s late.

He’s late, but she left early. _Goddamn her,_ Athos thinks, but there’s no malice in it. She is infuriating, and he loves her. After all this time, after everything she did and every insult that he threw her way, he loves her. 

Athos stares at the glove in his hand. He knows that even if he managed to ride to Le Havre before she boarded the ship, he could not go with her. The King just declared war, for God’s sake, and he would not forsake his brothers to indulge in a romantic whim. And yet… he had abandoned D’Artagnan’s wedding celebrations to meet her here. Why? He does not know. Anne made her terms perfectly clear – sail with her to England, or never see her again. Athos remembers the way her voice cracked when she said it. _I want to be as I once was with you._

It cannot be, he knows. Olivier d’Athos and Anne de Breuil both perished the moment he sentenced her to die. He thinks of the two of them, innocent and young and carefree, and he thinks of her now, cold and broken and still there, somewhere. 

Athos climbs atop his horse, and rides for Le Havre.

\--- 

It was not the most comfortable bed Anne had slept in, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. After all, a street urchin like her learned early not to take a warm bed for granted. In the months after her failed execution, she would sometimes find herself longing for the comfort of her marriage bed. Rainy days in Pinon were her favourite. They would sleep late, a mess of tangled limbs and sheets, until Athos would insist that he must get up and go over the accounts, collect the rents. 

“The rents can wait, my love,” she would say, peppering him with gentle kisses until he relented. He did not take a lot of convincing. 

It was not until Anne pulled herself out of her childish reminiscing that she realised someone was knocking at her door. It is still dark out, she thought to herself, hand instinctively going to the knife under her pillow. She lit a candle and stepped toward the door. 

“Who is it?” 

“Open the door, Anne.” 

It was as though the air had been ripped from her lungs. That voice, she would know it anywhere. Athos. She did not drop the knife. Instead, she gripped it even tighter, and opened the door. 

He looked exhausted. 

Neither spoke for a moment, just stared, and Anne was glad that there was no-one around, because what a pair they must look. 

In the end, she cracked first. She always did. “What the hell are you doing here, Athos?” 

“Hello to you too, Anne." 

That drawl... God, it was almost indecent. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to kiss him. She did neither. Instead, Anne slowly lowered the knife, and moved away from the door. “I suppose I should invite you in, then.” 

A small smile tugged at his lips. “I would like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me longer than I thought. Thanks for the lovely comments on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this one. 
> 
> (Charlotte is one of the names Milady uses in the book. I stole some details from the book about her past, like the living in a convent part, but changed a little too.)
> 
> P.S I have changed the name because I didn't like War Can Wait.

He’s here. He’s here he’s here he’s here he’s here. 

How the hell is he _here?_

A thousand thoughts run through Anne’s head as she watches Athos take in the room. His face is as impassive as it always is when he’s around her, but she doesn’t miss the way his eyes land on the pitcher of wine on the table, something like longing in them. When he makes no move to pour a cup, she sighs and does it for him. She pours herself one too, because to pour the wine she has to get close to him, close enough that she can feel his warm breath on her shoulder, and it sets her on fire. 

There is silence. Athos drinks, still not looking at her, so Anne uses the opportunity to properly look at him, taking in his hair, damp from sweat, and his cheeks rosy from  
exertion. How fast did he ride here? 

Anne breaks the silence once again, because it’s becoming almost painful. “How did you find me?” 

“With great difficulty,” says Athos, with a quirk of his lips. “You are a hard woman to find.” 

She remembers saying that to him, remembers searching tavern after tavern in search of her drunk, estranged husband, and remembers all the things that came after. _There really is nothing in there left to save._

“I like it that way. So, how?” 

Athos raises his eyebrow. “You’re… angry with me?” 

Admittedly, Anne’s tone was snappier than she intended. But she had spent the whole journey attempting to knit her broken heart back together and make peace with the fact that she would never see her husband again. And now he is here, drinking her wine and not explaining himself, and it’s all too much.

“I’m not angry,” She takes a step toward him, wanting to touch him, to make sure he’s real. “You didn’t come, Athos.” 

This time, it is him that is quick to anger. “You left early!” 

“You didn’t come,” Anne repeats. “Was I supposed to wait all night like some lovesick fool?” 

“No, just until sundown. Your words, Anne, not mine.” 

He’s right, of course. He’s right but her head is spinning, and she can’t stop her natural defences from kicking in. She takes a deep breath, a long gulp of wine, and perches on the end of the bed. “I know. I’m sorry. Will you sit?” 

Maybe her freely given apology shocks him, because Athos does not hesitate in sitting next to her. The bed is fairly small, so he ends up sitting so close that their thighs are touching. It shouldn’t be like this, shouldn’t feel this awkward. They have known each other intimately, in every way, and yet this slight touch makes her light-headed, like a maiden on her wedding night. Not that she was a virgin on her own wedding night, of course, although her first time with Athos was different. He was always so gentle, always thought of her pleasure as well as his own. 

“You didn’t say-” 

“The King has-”

They smile at each other. 

“You first,” says Athos.

“You didn’t say how you found me. You surely did not intend to search every inn at Le Havre?” 

“I did not think so far ahead,” he admits. “I just hoped to reach you before you left. When the ticket vendor informed me that the next ship to England wasn’t until morning, I gave a group of child beggars a handful of livre, and asked if a beautiful woman had passed earlier, enquiring of the same ship.” 

It’s hard to focus after he calls her beautiful, and Anne almost blushes. She hates herself for it. “An honourable Musketeer bribing children. Whatever will Treville say?” 

“Not bribing,” His voice is serious but light, and she knows he heard the tease in her voice. “It was a mutually beneficial transaction.” 

“The children led you here?” 

“One of the young girls was quite enamoured with you,” he says. “I do believe she intended to pick your pocket.” 

She can’t help but smile at that, and the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “A girl after my own heart.” 

The atmosphere changes in an instant, and that once comforting touch of his thigh against hers feels like ice. She gets up and moves to the window, pouring more wine as she goes. It is time for a long overdue conversation about the past, and yet Anne cannot help the bitter wave of emotion that engulfs her. Athos refused to listen to her all those years ago, why would he bother now? But he came to her. He rode here, not knowing if she had left the country, and that must mean something. 

A deep voice breaks her from her musings. “There is something you must know.” 

She turns to face him, intrigued, and remembers what he had started to say earlier. _The King has…_ “Tell me.” 

\---  
Every bone in his body ached. Athos had ridden farther before, escorting various noblemen and women here and there, but never this far without stopping. _Never this far without wine,_ he thinks. In his haste to meet Anne at the crossroads, he had forgotten to refill his pouch after leading a toast to D’Artagnan and Constance back at the garrison. 

Once, a few years ago, Treville banned alcohol on a mission. No wine, he said, and no brandy. Water only, and ale at a last resort. The aim was to gather intelligence on a man suspected of spying for the Spanish, and they needed their minds clear. Athos was horrified when his hand started shaking a few days in and vowed to clean up his act once they returned to Paris. They found what they needed and headed home, and despite his quiet promises to stop, he found himself two bottles deep by sundown. 

All those years ago, alcohol became his only friend, his only family. His conscience burned with the knowledge that he had sent his wife to her death, struggling to reconcile his perfect Anne with the women that murdered his brother. Athos had poured over the evidence Thomas gathered for weeks, months, until the pages became dog-eared, stained with wine and tears. It told a story of a young girl, Charlotte, taken in by the nuns at a local convent two towns over. She had stayed there for little under a year before being caught attempting to flee with a bag of valuables. The documents claimed that upon her arrest the girl seduced a priest, who then freed her. After that, it seemed Charlotte changed her name and entered the employ of a Parisian criminal named Sarazin. After that, details became sparse. And then – _marries Olivier D’Athos de la Fere under false name Anne de Breuil._

Months later, Athos pulled himself together enough to charter a carriage to Paris. He had intended to find this Sarazin character and find answers to the hundreds of questions that occupied his every waking thought. Instead, he found himself spending entirely too much time in the local taverns. Bar fights became almost a hobby, and it was in this hopeless situation that Treville found him and gave him a chance at a new life.

 _A lifetime ago,_ thinks Athos, draining his cup. He didn’t know what he would tell Anne when he rode here, and he doesn’t know now, not with her standing in front of him looking like a dream. Her throat is bare, and Athos feels a familiar pang of guilt at the redness of her scar. He wants to pull her to him and never let her go, wants to kiss every part of her pale skin, wants to re-familiarise himself with all the places he knows she likes to be touched. But they are not there yet, so he clears his throat and says, “There is something you must know.” 

“Tell me.” 

“The King has declared war with Spain.” 

He watches as she closes her eyes and sighs. He does not expect the venom with which she spits, “That… that fool! That idiotic fool of a man-”

Athos cuts her off, eyes instinctively darting toward the door for fear of eavesdroppers. “Anne, you should not speak such treason.”

She scoffs. “Treason? He is an imbecile, and you know it. He thinks nothing of the affect war will have on the people of France. He merely wishes to claw back his wounded pride.” 

“The Spanish sent Rochefort to infiltrate the palace,” counters Athos, although he is not sure if he disagrees with her. “His actions almost destabilised France beyond repair.” 

“And going to war with Spain will achieve exactly that,” Anne says, moving toward him. “Tell me I’m wrong, Athos.” 

Once, Athos would have recoiled from her closeness. Now, he craves it. “It matters not who is right or who is wrong. Preparations have already begun.” It is in that exact moment that Athos sees realisation wash over her. Anne is close enough that he can see her body stiffen, so Athos puts his arms around her before she can move away. “I’m sorry.” 

Anne makes no move to release herself from his grip. Instead she relaxes into it, testing how far this embrace goes by laying her head softly on his chest. “For what?” 

“I cannot go to England with you,” says Athos quietly, already mourning the comfortable weight of her against him. She does not move, however.

“I know.” 

That shocks him. Athos gently angles her head so that they are looking at each other. “You know?” 

“I knew from the moment you told me of the King’s plans,” Anne says. “You are too good a man to abandon your duty.” 

She is right. She is right, and the weight of her against him is intoxicating, her voice the sweetest music he has heard. _You are too good a man._ How can she still think this of him, after all he has done? Condemning her to death. Holding a gun to her head. Forcing her to her knees in the middle of the street, his sword at her chest, his friends there to watch her final humiliation. Suddenly he finds himself too ashamed to meet her eye. He does not deserve her love.

Anne’s voice breaks him out of his memories. 

“Stop thinking,” she says. Her eyes flicker to his lips, and she cups his cheek with her hand. “And kiss me.”


End file.
